


Put Out

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Butt Plugs, Humiliation, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a note on Arthur's desk earlier today, featuring a time, an address, and a rather careless drawing of a fire extinguisher. The address wasn't anywhere Arthur knew and the writing was unfamiliar. It was the fire extinguisher that signified what this meant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherrybina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrybina/gifts).



> Edited by the super-ultra-lovely Photoclerk, who is made of purified awesome.

Arthur's sitting at the bar, getting pissed – both as in _drunk_ and as in _annoyed_ – slowly but surely.

There was a note on Arthur's desk earlier today, featuring a time, an address, and a rather careless drawing of a fire extinguisher. The address wasn't anywhere Arthur knew and the writing was unfamiliar. It was the fire extinguisher that signified what this meant.

So now Arthur's sitting here in ripped jeans and a tight t-shirt, nursing his third drink and Eames _still_ hasn't shown up.

It's possible, if he wants to get suspicious, that is wasn't Eames at all. Not likely, considering the efforts Arthur puts into his own security, but possible that someone else figured out his habits and is using this opportunity to lure Arthur into a trap. Maybe they're hoping that when Eames doesn't show up Arthur will say yes to any of the other dozen propositions he got tonight, and the one he goes with will be the one to plant a knife in his stomach.

Arthur's morosely considering the risk/benefit analysis of such behavior when someone leans over him and whispers, "Hello, pretty boy."

Arthur bites down on the urge to say _God, stop stealing lines from porn scripts._ It's cheesy and stupid, but sadly, it works on Arthur like a charm every time. He can’t help his reaction, doesn’t want to hide the shift in his posture, the way his hips fall open when he turns to look at Eames.

Eames' hair is mussed, free of the stupid comb-over he keeps it in when he tries - and fails - to look professional. The unsightly sweater he walked around in earlier today is replaced by a worn leather jacket. He kept the shirt - wrinkled slightly, top button undone - and the pants, which are actually well-tailored for once, clinging to Eames’ ass the same way Arthur’s hands will be later.

Arthur _definitely_ approves. He gives Eames a blatant once-over. "Hello, yourself." Eames is looking at Arthur like he wants to eat him up, possibly literally, chew him and leave him covered with crooked teeth marks.

Arthur can work with that. "Can I help you with anything?" He doesn't even try to mask the dripping innuendo, the _come and get me_ approach. Arthur refuses to be embarrassed about the things he enjoys.

Eames doesn't answer, just runs a single finger up and down Arthur's neck. Arthur shivers, lets Eames see that he does. Eames smirks in approval and sits beside him. Arthur's slouching, so Eames has to bow his head to get at Arthur's neck.

The first touch of his lips has Arthur hissing. Then there's a soft lick, testing the waters. Arthur tilts his head, giving Eames room and blatant encouragement to keep going.

He gasps when Eames' teeth close on the skin of his neck, where he's sensitive as fuck and not entirely braced for the pain. It's good though, the shock itself is making this better, winding him up. He can feel the first thrill of helplessness running through him, relaxing his muscles and setting fire to his bones. Just a tiny flame for now, but it's got time to grow. They’ve only just begun.

Eames lets go and looks around. "Some place you chose to pick up a fuck," he says. Arthur doesn't say Eames chose it, because it's all part of the game, and anyway it was Arthur's choice to come here. The dancing floor is dense with people, but not so packed that Arthur can't see what they're doing, the occasional hand down somebody's pants and a few that are beginning to do away with clothing altogether. It's a loose atmosphere, dizzy and drunk on booze, sex and cheap weed. In his right mind, Arthur would detest it.

Eames rakes a fingernail down his neck, scraping the place where his teeth left a mark, and Arthur startles. Eames makes a sound, too quiet and dark to call a laugh. "Tell me, sweetheart. Do I make you feel good?"

Then Eames' hand leaves him. Eames' eyes are on him. Arthur swallows. "Yes," he says. That wasn't so hard to get out, nowhere near as hard as it used to be. Eames likes to work his way up slowly with Arthur, and that's probably best for both of them.

Eames hums in approval and sets his teeth on Arthur's neck again, laying an unsubtle hand on the similarly unsubtle bulge in Arthur's pants, fingers curling inward around Arthur. He gasps, trying to lean into Eames' hand and his mouth simultaneously.

"Everyone can hear you," Eames says. "You do realize that, yes?" Though that's plainly untrue, considering the volume the music's blaring at, bass so powerful Arthur can feel the vibrations where he's sitting. "Everyone can see how much you want to be fucked."

That last sentence could have been many things, from degrading to downright funny, if Eames didn't sound so amused as he said it. As if he thought Arthur wanting it was somehow endearing.

Arthur bares his teeth in an approximation of a smile. "So fuck me."

Eames' hand lands on the small of Arthur's back, warm through his clothes. "With pleasure."

Eames guides him to the bathroom and presses him into a wonderfully convenient handicapped stall. Arthur braces himself against the wall. Eames is generous enough to take Arthur's pants off for him today. That immediately makes Arthur wary. Eames is never nice unless he has a plan, usually one he thinks Arthur will refuse, at least at first.

Then Eames' wet fingers are circling Arthur's hole, and he's too busy doing other things, like biting his lip to keep from crying out. Eames isn't careful with him, just pushes two fingers in straight away and rubs his other hand down Arthur's back. "There," he says, voice gentle like his fingers aren't, pushing into Arthur in short vicious strokes. "Isn't this better for you? Don't you love this?"

"Yes," Arthur says, because if he doesn't Eames will stop.

He's not all the way ready when Eames takes his fingers out and pushes his cock in instead. He's not wearing a condom, and there's a war waging inside Arthur's head between _This is safe, this is Eames, I have his medical record memorized_ and _Shit fuck he's going to come_ inside _me_.

Eames is strongly encouraging the latter, groaning, saying. "I'll fill you up, darling, you'll be dripping with my come, out of your arse and down your thighs like the slut you are."

Arthur's face heats up at this, at the image, at the name, and he thrusts back against Eames, biting into his own arm to muffle the noises that want to come out. Eames inside him is a thick, unforgiving hardness, forcing Arthur open, a rough friction that hurts in a way Arthur can't get enough of.

Eames chuckles. His voice is raspy when he says, "No use hiding it. I already know it all, you filthy, _oh_ ," and that noise means Eames just came and left Arthur hanging, the rotten bastard.

Arthur hisses when Eames pulls out, mentally composing a dozen scathing remarks. Eames brushes a kiss on Arthur's shoulder blade. "Don't you worry, darling," Eames says. "Have I ever denied you satisfaction?"

It's not really a shock, then, when Eames pulls something out to show Arthur. The thing in Eames' hand is a silver stem with a bulbous head on one end and a ring on the other. Eames holds it by the ring and traces a circle around Arthur's lips with the head. _Cold_ , Arthur thinks, and jerks his head back.

"Now, there." Eames' voice is soft, hypnotic. "Take that in for me, won't you? Or it'll be blasted cold when it goes into your arse."

Arthur shudders and opens his mouth. Eames puts just the tip inside Arthur's mouth, rubbing the smooth metal against his tongue. Arthur's extremely conscious of the picture he's making, braced against the wall with his shirt rucked up and his jeans pulled down, sucking on something specifically designed for fucking into him. He flushes and sucks harder, hips bucking forward of their own account.

"Just like that," Eames says, petting Arthur again as if he needed it. It's almost more humiliating than having a buttplug in his mouth. "Such a good little slut. You'll take it all in, won't you?"

The plug's size isn't exactly challenging for Arthur's mouth, but since said mouth is kind of busy, Arthur can hardly say that. He closes his teeth carefully around the stem, circling his tongue over the head, feeling it warm from the heat of his mouth.

Eames tugs gently on the ring. Arthur opens his mouth and lets the thing fall back into Eames' hand. "Just exactly like that," Eames repeats, with a pleased, almost proud look in his eyes that Arthur doesn't want to like.

When Eames slides the plug into him he's slower, pushing it in careful increments until Arthur wants to roll his eyes and snap at him to just _go_ already. But once the thickest part is inside Arthur's body just about swallows the rest of it, pulling it in, and Arthur has to look away from Eames' satisfied smirk.

Then Eames pulls Arthur's pants up, carefully zips and buttons him up, and drags him out of the bathroom and back to the club. Arthur's a little too stunned to react in the way he normally would (i.e. demanding to know exactly what was _wrong_ with Eames) so he follows, a step behind, breath hitching when the plug moves inside him.

Eames practically seats Arthur on the bar stool (hard plastic under him, driving the thing up and in and _fuck_ ), turns to the bartender and says something Arthur can't make out because the music picks up in volume and oh, _oh,_ ** _fuck_**.

Arthur shifts in his seat and shifts again, but there's no getting away from it, from the insistent pressure inside him, from the hard shiver of the bass thundering into him and threatening to rip him apart. He leans back and breathes in shallow pants, spreading his legs to ease the growing ache in his crotch, the painful rub of denim rough on his sensitized skin.

Eames looks at him, mouth quirked in amusement. "All right there?"

Arthur can't answer. Arthur can't speak. Arthur can't move, because if he does he'll come, right there in his pants where everyone can see him. He looks around and swallows. Fuck, everyone can see him right now, twisting on that thing inside him, trying to pretend he isn't humping the seat to make the plug drive harder into him and failing miserably.

The look Eames gives him is measuring. He frowns slightly, then nods once. "All right. I'll finish my drink and we'll be off, yeah?"

Off. Arthur will show him off. Specifically, Arthur will off Eames, frustrating cock-tease that he is. Arthur would tell Eames that, but if he opens his mouth right now nothing coherent will come out.

Eames takes his goddamned time with that drink, only sparing Arthur an occasional look as Arthur fights not to fall apart right there. People are staring at them openly, strangers' eyes sliding down Arthur's body to rest on his crotch. Arthur squirms, then wishes he hadn't as the plug touches new places inside him.

Finally, fucking _finally_ Eames tosses a note on the bar and practically drags Arthur out by the neck. The club is close to Eames' hotel, but the walk seems infinitely long. Every step is torture, chafing Arthur raw from the inside. By the time they reach the hotel he's barely keeping from sobbing out loud, hands clenching rhythmically into fists as Eames ushers him into the elevator.

Eames opens Arthur's fly right there in the elevator, letting his cock hang out, hard and obscene. "Just imagine," Eames says, gleeful. "If anybody walked in right now, if the elevator stopped and some poor tourist – "

"Don't," Arthur grits out, because the sick pleasure of this scenario is more _sick_ than _pleasure_. Eames, mercifully, shuts up, only giving Arthur a curious look. Arthur doesn't ask to be tucked in, though, suffers himself to be exposed to the cool air and to Eames' hungry gaze.

He hopes desperately that no one will see, and that hope is a live line going straight to his cock and jerking it up when he can't help but think _And if they do?_

Thankfully, the hotel is all but deserted this time of night. Nobody's there when Arthur stumbles out of the elevator after Eames, as he stands by the door shifting restlessly because Eames can't seem to operate a goddamned keycard.

Then they're in Eames' room, and Arthur sits on the bed and keens at the pressure of the thing inside him, rubbing his ass against the bed because he lost all shame somewhere between the elevator and the door.

Eames takes him in, leans against the wall and pulls his own dick out. He gives it a few short strokes, seemingly transfixed to the sight of Arthur on the bed, then shakes his head and straightens. "Can you stand up for me, love?" His voice is hushed, almost reverent.

Arthur's legs are shaking under him, but he manages. Eames catches him when he stumbles and turns him, moving him to kneel bent over the bed. Eames mouths a lingering kiss against Arthur's back, licking down his spine in short strokes of his tongue.

Arthur's shaking by the time Eames reaches between his ass cheeks, whimpering when Eames licks around the base of the plug, crying out when Eames tugs it out with his teeth and lets it slide back inside.

It's too much, and Arthur doesn't even need to be asked anymore. He just buries his face in the blanket and begs. "Please," he says, in a voice made rough by all the things he tries to keep from getting out.

Eames' fingers are strangely soft on Arthur's face, tracing a line around his cheekbone. "That's not very specific," Eames says, and it's telling of Arthur's mental state that the mental image conjured by that isn't one of him strangling Eames.

"Fuck me," Arthur says, past pretense, all but feverish in his need to come. "Please fuck me. Hard."

"As ever," Eames says, punctuating this with a bite to Arthur's upper thigh, "you only needed to ask."

The plug comes out, pulling Arthur wide open. Arthur bites down into the blanket to stifle the noises that want to pour out of him, not because he's embarrassed but because it feels like they might tear something vital in him on their way out. Eames shushes him, rubs comforting circles into Arthur's back with the hand that isn't busy fingering him.

He's gentler now than he was at the club, waiting until he can comfortably slide three fingers into Arthur before he takes them out to fuck Arthur in earnest.

Words are spilling out of Eames now, filth and endearment all mixed up in one another until his teeth clamp on the back of Arthur's neck and Arthur can't hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears, over his own desperate shouts as he comes all over himself. Eames keeps fucking him through it, keeps until Arthur is sobbing at every thrust because it's too much, it hurts, he can't take any more of it.

Eames kisses his temple. "Should I stop?"

Arthur closes his eyes. "No."

Eames goes slower, but that's no kindness to Arthur, who feels every thrust more clearly for it. The feel of it writes itself in his brain over and over, until he can't make sense of anything anymore, until he's hard again and pressing back into where it hurts.

"You can't stop, can you," Eames says, strain and wonder in his voice. "Do you even know what _enough_ means?"

Arthur shakes his head, not in denial, just because he can't help but move _something_. He tries to tell Eames to shut the fuck up, but what makes his way out of his throat is a long thin cry, the edge of it serrated against the inside of his throat.

Eames curses and comes, filling Arthur up for the second time this night.

Arthur lies there as Eames' arms come around him, quieted and calm. His breaths are slow and even. He tilts his head to rub his face against Eames', who presses a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth.

Eames' hand curls around Arthur's cock. "Shall I?"

"You don't have to." Arthur's eyes are still closed. "It'll take ages. Just leave it, it'll go down by itself."

Instead, Eames chooses to move away and come back to lie with his head pillowed on Arthur's thigh, taking Arthur's cock in his mouth. He's slow about it, soft touches of lips and tongue, not even a hint of teeth. Every so often he'll pull off Arthur's cock to suckle on the two fingers he slid inside Arthur, licking his own come off them and pushing them back inside, carefully slow.

It probably does take ages, but something happened to Arthur's time perception, and it feels like seconds before he's tensing up and coming again, right into Eames' mouth.

What comes after is generally awkward, Arthur trying to put his clothes back on with barely-working fingers, Eames lying on the bed and staring at him as if – as if – fuck, Arthur doesn't even know. But right now Arthur can barely bring himself to move at all, only just enough to avoid the wet spot. Then again, said wet spot covers half the bed, so avoiding it is no small effort.

But that does leave Arthur loosely held in Eames' arms, and he has no fucking clue what happens next.

"You could stay," Eames says, because he has to be a fucking mind reader on top of everything else. "I'll make you breakfast, even."

Arthur's too tired to do anything but tuck his face into the junction of Eames' neck and shoulder. "If you make me fruit salad, I'll stay."

"Fruit salad can be arranged." Eames runs his fingers through the hair at the back of Arthur's neck, pressing lightly on the place Eames bit him. Feels like that's going to bruise. Arthur hums to himself in quiet satisfaction.

"And wake me up with a blowjob," Arthur says, because sometimes it pays to be greedy. "Can I have a blowjob?"

Eames kisses him, long and slow. "You can have anything you want."

It's a good thing Arthur is rapidly falling asleep, because he's pretty sure he's supposed to think up something mocking to cut all that sappy shit with, and he can't think of a single thing to say.


End file.
